


like herding cats

by nilchance



Series: ain't this the life [6]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationships, Fellcest - Freeform, M/M, Soul Sex, Underfell Papyrus, Underfell Sans, cross-universe bullshit shenanigans, hints of kedgeup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 18:32:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14575047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: The cat looks nothing like Doomfanger.





	like herding cats

**Author's Note:**

> Everything in the second half of the story, after the *** is explicit Fellcest if that's not your bag.

The cat looks nothing like Doomfanger. 

She isn't missing half an ear and an eye. Her fur is black and orange, not dust gray. She's tiny where Doomfanger is the size of Papyrus's dog. It's the look in her eye that reminds him of Doomfanger, that same baleful stare daring the world to bring her its worst. This is an untamed cat in a tame world.

Edge sits still on the back step, watching her watch him. He can be patient. He keeps his posture relaxed and his hands open, his gaze unchallenging. They've done this ritual for weeks, the cat edging closer every time. Now she is stretched out to sniff his hand.

Quietly, Edge says, "Brave with your full belly, aren't you? That's good."

She doesn't flinch from the sound of his voice. Her ears and whiskers are fully forward, curious. This close, he can see too many visible ribs for his liking.

"Are you a shitty hunter or are there just not enough rats around here?" Edge asks. Her ear twitches and she gives him a look of such cool annoyance that he smiles. "You'd do better in the woods, I think. Too many fucking humans. I sympathize."

She sits down, studying him. Her tail lashes once, then curls around her, settling over her paws. She’s within reach if he stretches. He could try to touch her if he wanted but that would be pushing his luck. Patience is important.

It isn't disloyal to Doomfanger. Of course his cat’s found other sources of food and company in his absence. They're both independent creatures. Knowing Fang, he's attached himself to Undyne and is driving her to drink. Stupid cat. Edge misses him.

"Still hungry?" Edge asks. Carefully, he turns his hand over and shows her the salmon jerky in his palm. Her attention sharpens. "I won't hurt you. I like my fingers attached."

Slowly, slowly, she stands back up. Her eyes fix on his face, back to the food, and back to his face again. Then she lunges forward, snaps the food up in her sharp little teeth, and darts back to the bottom of the steps to bolt down her ill-gotten gains.

"Who's a brave girl?" Edge croons.

The cat suddenly looks at something behind Edge. Then she takes off. Edge notices that she goes no further than the trashcans even as he's whipping around, already forming a weapon in his hand.

"Whoa," Sans says, hands up. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't scare me," Edge snaps. He dissipates the attack as quickly as he made it. "How long have you been standing there?"

The sly humor in Sans's eyes is answer enough. "Well," he begins.

"You saw nothing," Edge says flatly. "You’re struck tragically blind and deaf."

Grinning, Sans covers his eyes with a hand. "Oh no, how am I supposed to play the trombone now?"

"Then I did Papyrus a favor," Edge says.

"Am I supposed to be deaf or not?" Sans says. "The direction is a little shaky. What's my motivation?"

"Not getting dusted for seeing too much," Edge says.

"Yeah, heaven forbid I see you acting like a person," Sans says. He lowers his hand, perhaps realizing that he's taken his eyes off Edge like he trusts him. "Not feeling movie night?"

"You're out here too," Edge says. 

Sans shrugs. "Came to check on you."

More realistically, Sans wanted to sneak outside and have a cigarette. Edge wonders if Sans realizes what a glaring tell that is. They all know Sans only smokes when he feels like shit; it’s part of why Papyrus reacts so badly when he smells it on Sans’s clothes. Sans has been smoking a lot lately. Edge can use this. "If you're going to linger, sit down. You're making her nervous."

For a fraction of a second, Sans hesitates. Then he sits down beside Edge on the top step, careful not to touch him. He glances at the cat, still hunched by the trashcans glowering at the intruder. "I didn't realize you were a lion tamer in your spare time."

"Have you met my brother?" Edge asks.

Sans laughs, fondness in it. "Unfortunately."

"It isn't that difficult," Edge says. "All it takes is patience and a light hand."

"I'm gonna assume you're not talking about Red just for my peace of mind," Sans says. 

"I'm not talking about Red," Edge says. "For one thing, he doesn't respond well to gentle handling."

He thought he stripped the bitterness from his voice, but Sans turns to look at him. A thoughtful expression on a Sans does not bode well for anyone.

Before Sans can say anything stupid, Edge reaches into his pocket and pulls out the little package of salmon jerky. Over by the trashcans, the cat comes to attention.

"Food helps," Edge says, taking out a piece of jerky. It smells foul, but he took his gloves off so it won't linger after he washes his hands. He begins to tear the jerky into pieces. To the cat, he says, "There now. He won't hurt you. He's too lazy."

"Yep," Sans agrees. "No need to pussyfoot around."

Edge narrows his eyes. Sans's grin widens. As they're sitting together without anything to be afraid of, some of the tension is bleeding out of Sans. He's too tired to stay on full alert for long. One night of decent sleep can't counterbalance at least six months of pointlessly driving himself into the ground. He's lucky Edge isn't the threat that Sans thinks he is.

"Statement retracted," Edge tells the cat. "His puns might hurt you."

Sans says. "My puns are the cat's meow."

"If you're not going to helpful, leave," Edge says.

Sans mimes zipping lips he doesn't have. Edge gives him a last level stare, then tosses one of the pieces of the jerky to the bottom of the step. He puts the rest on each consecutive step leading up to the one they're sitting on. She’ll take the risk or she won’t.

The cat comes creeping out sooner than he would have expected. Sans is good at putting people at ease that they forget he's there, watching, listening. No one in Snowdin tends to forget that Red is in a room; he’s had to get skilled at lurking in shadows and eavesdropping instead. Another difference between them.

"Good," Edge tells them both. Then he deliberately ignores the cat, turning to Sans. "I forgot to mention one other limit to your arrangement with my brother."

Sans glances at the cat. "Aren't you kinda in the middle of something?"

"She'll come closer if I'm not looking at her," Edge says. "Red wouldn't allow it, but for the sake of being clear, don't touch his soul."

Sans gives him a strange look. "Why would I?"

For a moment, Edge feels almost... betrayed. "For fuck's sake, the scars aren't contagious."

In the corner of his eye, he sees the cat freeze at the anger in his voice. Surprisingly, Sans doesn't. In an infuriatingly reasonable tone, he says, "Take it easy. I don't care about the scars. I mean, I _care_ but it clearly isn't turning me off. I just don't get why you think I'd touch it."

His incomprehension seems genuine. Edge frowns. "You don't."

“Nope. Is this a weird kink thing?"

Edge's frown deepens. "Do people here not touch souls?"

“Not that I know of.” Given what Red’s told him of Sans’s sexual history, that’s saying something. Sans shrugs. “Doctors, maybe. I guess there are people into it. Whatever what shit you can think of, there's somebody into it. I don't judge."

"Have you ever said that and meant it?" Edge asks.

"I mean I'll judge you on the inside and keep quiet about it," Sans says. "Is that not what that means?"

The cat is on the second step. Having eaten the treat, she's thoroughly sniffing Edge's boot. She's keeping Edge between her and Sans, trusting a familiar stranger over a totally new one. Smart girl.

"To a judge, yes. That's probably what that means." Fuck knows Red has made that joke often enough. Edge turns what Sans has said over in his mind. Given how stupidly trusting the people of this universe are, he had assumed that they would touch souls with anyone who held still. How trusting most of them are, anyway. "Do you touch your own soul, then?"

He means that 'you' in the general sense, mostly, but even in the low light, he sees the heat in Sans's face. "Okay, a little cultural sensitivity update: you’re not supposed to just ask people how they jerk off.”

"I'm trying to understand," Edge says. He wants to trace that blush with his fingertips as far down as it goes. It’s charming. "For all the sex you've had, you're squeamish about actually discussing it."

The cat is on the third step, close enough to touch.

Sans says, "I don't see the point of talking a good thing to death."

Amused, Edge raises a brow. "Really. When has that ever stopped you?"

"You'd think you'd hear enough about sex from Red," Sans says.

"I know how to make him quiet," Edge says.

Sans has some reaction to that, walls too quickly slammed down for Edge to catch. It isn't disgust; Edge sees that much in the way Sans immediately looks guilty about it. "Look, message received. I won't touch his soul. It's a trial but somehow I'll carry on. Jeez, next you'll tell me not to lick his elbow."

Spoken like someone who's never touched his soul. It's only out of curiosity that Edge asks, "What do people do when their souls crack?"

"How would I know?" Sans asks. 

His expression stays mild, but Edge is too familiar with Red not to know a struck nerve when he sees one. Interesting. Edge says, "It was a general question. Why are you taking it personally?"

Sans looks away, a surprisingly amateur move. Very interesting. "I’m not. I’m just saying that doesn't happen here."

"Don't be ridiculous," Edge says. "Soft universe or not, there's still grief. Monsters still fought a war. There's still mental illness, clearly.” Sans deliberately scratches his cheekbone with his middle finger. Edge ignores him. “You're not all happy idiots with sunbeams shining out your ass and you're not so much stronger than us that you can't still break."

"I dunno what to tell you, dude," Sans says. "Everybody figures that people whose lives are fucking tragedies like Tori or Asgore have busted souls, but not normal people. We don’t have any excuse."

"Or people hide it so they don't disrupt the happy narrative," Edge says.

"Soul cracks aren't contagious but despair is," Sans says. "You weren't here when we were underground. Enough of us fell down already."

Disgusted, Edge says, "They died quietly so they don't disturb the neighbors."

"They also don't stab the neighbors," Sans says. There's isn't the usual judgment in his voice, though, just a resignation that bothers Edge more. "I guess it's a tradeoff. Cracked souls aren't a big deal where you come from?"

"Of course they’re a big deal. They can kill you," Edge says. "If you mean to ask whether we're so perversely ashamed of it, no. No more than you'd be ashamed to bleed after you're cut."

Sans looks at him. Considering the questions Edge has asked him, Sans has the right to ask this one. He doesn't ask. Of course, it doesn't hurt that Sans is too damned perceptive and so can answer the question himself without the effort of having difficult conversations.

Edge answers for him anyway. "Yes. Mine has cracked. I've broken and survived. Do you think less of me?"

"No," Sans says immediately. It's the answer Edge expected, of course, but hearing it eases some tension he didn't realize he was holding. "I'm just sorry."

“Spare me your pity,” Edge says.

Sans shakes his head. “You're alive. You didn’t just give up. Nothing pitiful about that.”

For once, Sans isn’t lying. Strangely warmed by the praise, Edge says gruffly, "It's not new, but thank you for your entirely unnecessary concern."

"Plenty more where that came from." To Edge's surprise, Sans touches his arm with just his fingertips. Even through Edge’s jacket, his hands are cold. In a somewhat eerie imitation of Toriel, Sans asks, "Are you eating enough, edgelord? Is that jacket warm enough for this weather? Are you worried the cows are going to want revenge for their skinned kinfolk?"

The cat is fully on the top step. Edge can feel her beside him. Greatly daring, she's nosing at the pocket of his jacket where she can smell more food.

"Then I suppose we can make burgers," Edge says.

That makes Sans laugh. It's softer than the usual dry ‘heh’, a hard-won moment of truth. "Okay. Thanks for the sociology lecture." When Edge gives him a look, Sans adds, "Seriously. I can't keep walking face-first into cultural bullshit. Red might die laughing."

"That's surprisingly polite of you," Edge says. "Clearly there's something you want."

Sans's eyes crease at the corners when he grins, dark circles beneath them like they were painted on in dark ink. "Oh, y'know. Good food, bad jokes. World peace. A pony. The usual."

Carefully, Edge strokes the cat's side with a finger. Her fur is surprisingly soft for a feral creature. He can feel the ribs beneath, the way her breath makes them rise and fall. She stops rifling his pockets, trembling on the verge of bolting for cover. He doesn't touch her again. He's satisfied with his progress for the night. She doesn't move. She also doesn't run.

"You can't take care of a rock," Edge says to Sans.

"Pony burgers. They'll go great with the cow vigilante burgers."

"Oh, so you think I'll share," Edge says. "Would I be offering food according to your custom or mine?"

Sans stares at him. After a moment, that traitorous blush burns across his face again. "Heh. Funny. Uh, the one where nobody's fucking anybody else."

 _Did you forget who I was?_ Edge thinks. _Just for a moment, did you forget?_

"Breaking my brother's heart already?" Edge asks.

“I’m just his piece on the side,” Sans says. “The only one who could break his heart is you.”

It's like being struck. Edge stills. Sans looks startled and interested by whatever he sees in Edge's face. Then Edge yanks himself back under control again. Scaldingly angry, he starts, "You don't understand anything about--"

The cat suddenly darts off the steps. For a moment, Edge thinks she was startled when he raised his voice. He sees the empty jerky package in her teeth just before she scuttles out of sight, gone with her ill-gotten gains as surely as Red with one of his shortcuts.

"The perfect crime," Sans remarks.

All his anger seems to retreat with her. Edge drags a hand down his face. "The perfect crime is somewhat thwarted by her lack of opposable thumbs."

"I dunno. She seems like she'll do just fine." Sans takes his hand off Edge's arm, looking like he just noticed he had left it there. He rubs the back of his neck. "She'll be back, though. I think she knows a mark when she sees one. What're you gonna call her? Murderdeath? Unpleasant Rash? Bob?"

Edge shakes his head. "When the time comes, I'll think of something. She doesn't trust me yet. That can't be rushed."

"She'll come around," Sans says. "Listen, Edge, you and Red--"

The door swings loudly open; Red knows better than to startle Edge. Leaning against the frame, Red says, "You two making out?"

"Aw, I wouldn't want to break you two crazy kids up," Sans says. He may be the first person other than Edge to ever be relieved to see Red. He climbs to his feet, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Imagine how awkward family reunions would be."

Red grins at him. "I was thinking more of a poly thing. Y'know, put the sister back in sister wives."

Edge glares at him behind Sans’s back, because bringing up incest is the opposite of helping, and Red winks.

Sans pats Red on the chest, a risky move that would get most people bitten. "Dream big, starshine. Did you and Papyrus have a nice chat?"

"Nah," Red says. "We were too busy fucking."

Sans winces. Edge doesn’t know what else Sans expected. "Thanks. Thanks so much for that."

"Just keeping it in the family," Red says. He gives Edge a longer, searching look. "So what were you two doing out here?"

"The cat came back," Edge says. Unfortunately, he realizes he's setting up a joke but he doesn't know any way to avoid the inevitable.

Red's eyes light up. "Ohhh. So you were getting pu--"

“Why are we all standing out here?” Papyrus says brightly, his timing as suspicious as always. Surprisingly, Red shuts his mouth on the word ‘pussy’, hunching a little with his hands in his pockets. Papyrus reaches out an absent hand and scritches Red’s skull. Red doesn’t lash out at him. Apparently everyone but Edge is allowed to touch him gently. Edge isn’t bitter at all. “Are we trying to heat the neighborhood? Because I could probably find some flamethrowers.”

“Me and the edgelord were just having a little chat,” Sans says. 

Edge underestimated Papyrus once and paid for it. They fought. He had been at 1 HP, unable to get back on his feet, unable to fight. He’s still alive on Papyrus’s sufferance. So yes, when their eyes meet, Edge has no doubt that Papyrus knows what he’s trying to do.

Rather than objecting, violently or otherwise, Papyrus tells Edge with all apparent sincerity, “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey,” Sans says, clearly not offended. “And here I was on my best behavior and everything. Look, his arm’s not even a little gnawed on.”

Red drapes an arm across Sans’s waist, pulling his body in close, and steers him back inside. His hand rests on Sans’s hip, casually proprietary. Sans gives Red a warning look that he ignores. Red says, “He’s talking about the jokes, man.”

Sans sighs. “We’re so unappreciated in our time.” 

“Don’t worry, brother,” Papyrus says. “Your jokes are unappreciated in all sorts of times. Every single time. Ever.”

Sans’s laugh trails behind him as he disappears into the house with Red, leaving Edge and Papyrus alone. Edge has no doubt that Red is going to take advantage of the brief privacy to wind Sans up and leaving him flushed and needy to suffer through the rest of the night. Edge knows Red’s sense of humor.

Papyrus sets his shoulders, taking a deep breath. “Edgy Me…”

Then he hesitates. Edge sighs. “I’ve told you not to call me that. What is it?”

He knows what. He’s seen this scenario play out before. This is the point where a weaker monster’s stronger family member, by blood or otherwise, threatens to scatter the newcomer’s dust if they dare to hurt what’s theirs. Edge can respect that.

“Please don’t hurt my brother,” Papyrus says.

Papyrus has a habit of catching him off guard.

They discussed this. After the fight, Edge explained the situation with Red. But Papyrus doesn’t mean with his fists. The easy dismissal sputters and dies in Edge’s mouth. He looks away. “I’ll do my best. You know how they are.”

“I do,” Papyrus says, with the loving exasperation he saves for his brother alone. “Luckily, our best is pretty amazing. I believe in you.”

“You can’t be this naive,” Edge says.

“It takes a lot of effort to believe in people!” Papyrus says. “It’s okay, Edgy Me. I know not everybody’s up to the challenge.” 

Edge stares at him. Papyrus’s answering smile is somewhat belligerent.

Papyrus may not have had to struggle as hard to survive, but if he managed to hold onto his optimism, considering the resets, that’s indeed a kind of strength. Edge envies him that. Edge envies him a lot of things.

Still, Edge feels obligated to say, “You’re a manipulative little shit.”

“We’re the same height,” Papyrus says, but pointedly doesn’t argue with the rest of it. “Unless you’re wearing those boots. Then you’re tall like a sexy robot.”

“Hm.” Edge can accept that. “He is a rather sexy robot, isn’t he. He certainly knows how to handle a chainsaw.”

“An important skill in any romance!” Papyrus agrees.

Edge claps him on the shoulder like he would Undyne, taking satisfaction in Papyrus’s wince. “Finally, someone with sense. Now let’s get inside before one of them tries to pick a movie.”

Papyrus shudders. “Yes. Let’s.”

***

When the night is finished and Sans and Papyrus are leaving, Sans almost manages to make a clean getaway before Red decides to be an asshole.

"What," Red says, grinning meanly. "No hug?"

Edge recognizes Sans's expression. It's the one Red gets when he's deciding whether to solve a problem with murder.

Then Sans glances at Papyrus, who beams encouragingly, and Edge, who raises a brow. Like he thinks Red is going to stab him in the back, Sans steps into Red's open arms and stiffly hugs him.

Red nuzzles his cheek and murmurs something that's too quiet to hear. Whatever it is makes Sans's eyelights shrink to pinpoints and his face blush burn hot. He jerks out of Red's grip and says a little too fast, "Okay, good seeing you, we're leaving, bye."

"What?" Papyrus says, frowning. "But I'm not--"

Sans grabs him by the hand and then they're both gone. 

Red cackles. "Fuck, he's easy to rile up."

Edge drops onto the couch. There's a mess in the kitchen to be dealt with, but it can wait. It's good to see Red laugh. "What did you say to him?"

"Tch. Just told him that next time, I wanna come around his dick," Red says. "It could’ve been way worse.”

“How merciful of you,” Edge says. Considering that Red can spout such filth that Edge blushes, he’s not being entirely sarcastic. 

“That’s me,” Red says. “All about the mercy. So gimme the lowdown. Get anywhere with him?”

Edge shakes his head. There’s time enough to recap what Sans told him later, especially what Edge is beginning to suspect about the state of Sans’s soul. For now… “Come here.”

Red immediately snaps to attention. He comes and stands between Edge’s open legs, his body language slouched and indolent, his hands in his pockets. His grin is a challenge. “What? Did he get you all riled up? Happy to be the target for your sexual frustration, boss.”

“I don’t need an excuse to want you,” Edge says. 

It's on the razor line between what sentiment Red will tolerate and what will make him lash out. He knows that even before Red goes tense. Red gives him a searching look, anger and desperate want. For all that Red snipes about Sans fighting what he needs, he's no better. Always trying to keep Edge strong, to make sure Edge survives. Kindness is weakness, even between them, even if Red wants it. Especially if Red wants it.

Edge meets his eyes and doesn’t blink. “Strip.”

Red is the one who looks away first, his jaw tight. He peels out of his clothes, kicking them into a messy pile. Edge should probably make him stop and fold them, but Red is still primed to fight if pushed too hard.

Well. Edge knows how to deal with that.

Hooking two fingers under Red’s collar, making Red choke for unnecessary air, Edge pulls him closer. When he reaches under Red’s ribs and closes his fingers around Red's soul, that fragile thing that makes up the whole of his brother, Red sputters. “Aw, no, come on--”

Edge pulls the soul from Red's chest, cradling it in his hand, and Red leans after it like he wants it back. Edge uses the collar to give him a little shake. When Edge brings the soul into the light, its dim shine reflects in the dark of Red’s eyes like second eyelights.

He can feel Red, the constant background noise of his anxiety, his slow-burning anger, his crippling guilt. It's been better. It's been worse. The frequent handling and more frequent sex have kept his soul uncalcified and (judging from way Red moans when Edge strokes the surface with a negligent thumb) sensitive to the touch. Red hasn't shut himself down. Good. 

Edge lets go of Red's collar. Red stays where he was put, his eyes darting from his soul to Edge's face. Waiting for instruction, Edge realizes with a bright spill of smug approval that passes from his hand to Red's soul. Red shudders, his eyes going half-lidded and hazy. Silver fluid begins to well from the dry surface of his soul, making Edge’s fingers glide more easily.

"So wet, so quickly,” Edge says. Dirty talk is more Red’s talent than his own, but the way Red groans and squinches his eyes shut, face burning, is more than worth a little awkwardness. The first trickle of fluid bleeds between Edge’s fingers; Edge leans forward so that it patters onto the floor like soft rain, not on the upholstery. Their faces are close enough to touch. Nowhere for Red to hide from him. “It has been a while, hasn’t it. Have I been neglecting you, brother?”

“Fuck you,” Red sighs. They both know he has mixed feelings about how quickly and brutally it leaves him helpless. They both know that Edge loves it.

“Eventually,” Edge says. He shifts his grip on Red’s soul, cradling it in his cupped palms so that he can rub with both thumbs at once. Red jerks like Edge bit him. His knees buckle, and he hits the floor hard enough that Edge automatically checks him, though he doesn’t stop kneading Red’s soul. “Once I’ve made you come like this.”

Which won’t be long, judging from the way Red is shaking and the tight-coiling tension in his body. Edge knows his brother, body and soul. When Red tries to steady himself on Edge’s knees, Edge says, “Did I tell you to touch me?”

Perhaps it’s cruel, but Red’s head drops forward, relaxing into Edge’s control. Hoarsely, Red says, “Sorry.”

Fuck Red’s apologies. He never gives them for what he should.

Bleeding magic into Red’s soul is usually a slow process. Edge doesn’t bother now. He pours it into Red, healing magic and the same protective magic that binds his collar. Possession. Protection. Devotion. He feeds magic until it overflows.

Red almost goes under, down to that softer-edged place where he goes when Edge hurts him or uses him until he’s too hazy with exhaustion to resist. Edge didn’t even have to lay a finger on him. Even half-drunk with magic, Red manages not to entirely fold or to grab at Edge, although the connection sings with how badly Red craves to have something to hold onto.

“Touch me,” Red says, the words thick and fuzzy. “Please, boss, I can’t-- I can’t come like this, I--”

“That’s not your safeword,” Edge says.

Red shuts his mouth. His fists clench and unclench. There’s magic gathered, shapeless, in his pelvis as his body tries to cope with the sourceless pleasure. He says nothing. He takes it.

Edge’s cock is throbbing in time with his pulse. With equal fervor, he wants Red’s mouth on him and he wants to just see how long he can drag this out, how prettily he can get Red to beg. As many times as he’s handled Red’s soul, he’s always had at least one hand on him, holding him down or fucking him open. Watching Red fall apart without being touched is new and interesting. Red looks agonized, his soul pounding so fast in Edge’s hands.

If life in this softer world means that he would have never seen Red like this, Edge wants no part of it.

Edge raises the soul to his mouth and drags his tongue across it. Then he takes the soul in his mouth. The taste of it floods him, salt and ozone and his brother’s magic. Red cries out, the noise spiraling up with every soft lick. Edge is mercilessly gentle with him. When Red comes untouched, tears on his face, the intensity of it through the connection almost drags Edge into orgasm with him. He swallows the spill of Red’s release, drinking him down, only a thread of it slipping past his teeth and down his chin.

He wants to take Red’s trembling body into his arms. He wants to wipe the tears off his face. What he does is take the soul out of his mouth (Red whimpers like a kicked dog at the overstimulation) and say, “Make yourself useful.”

With gratifying speed, Red unzips Edge’s pants and pulls his cock out. His mouth is hot, his fingers trembling. Edge manages not to lose control at the first desperate suck, somehow, although his thighs strain with how much he wants to just thrust sloppily into Red’s mouth. Instead he grips Red’s spine, bracingly tight, and lets Red’s clever tongue do its work.

When he’s just on the verge of coming, Edge uses his grip on Red’s neck to drag his head back. Judging from Red’s hiccuping sob, he knows what’s about to happen. His mouth is half-open and his eyes burn as Edge jerks himself off. When Edge grunts, muffled, and starts to come in wet pulses on Red’s upturned face, Red grips Edge’s knees tight enough to hurt and shudders like just this could bring him off again.

“Mine,” Edge says, a tender threat.

Red nods shakily. For a long moment, Edge thinks that’s the best he’s going to get out of him. Then Red leans forward, propping his forehead on Edge’s knee and smearing him with come in the process. Almost too quietly to hear, he says, “Yeah. Yours.”

Hearing it soothes some savage part of Edge. He tucks himself back into his pants, then pulls Red’s head up, taking him by the chin, tilting his face this way and that. Red preens under the attention, still half-gone, and Edge can only hope Red doesn’t notice the great swell of affection he feels. Red doesn’t balk, so he must not.

Slowly, breath by breath, Red pulls himself back together. Edge lets him take his time. He hardly minds Red leaning against him, quiet and calm for once, trusting Edge to look after him.

When Red starts shifting his weight, like he’s becoming aware of how hard he hit the floor, Edge says finally, reluctantly, “Get up. I’m not going to sit here all day.”

Red shakes himself all over, like a dog shedding water, and climbs back onto the couch so he can slump there. If it bothers him to sit there with come cooling on his face, his soul outside of his ribcage, he gives no indication. Edge could mistake him for asleep.

Edge takes another, somewhat less distracted look at Red’s soul. It’s still bright from Red’s orgasm, making it easy to see that there are no new cracks or possible fracture points. Good. 

Without opening his eyes, Red says, “M not going anywhere, you fucking nutcase. Relax.”

“I know you’re not,” Edge says. “I’ve told you. If you try to leave me, I’ll break your legs.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Red says. Fondness radiates from his soul, even if Edge can’t hear it in his dismissive tone. “I know.”

“Good,” Edge says. “You’d better.”

Red is starting to shiver a little, his wet soul cold in the open air. Reluctant to give it back, Edge pulls it closer to his own chest to warm it and its restless flutter eases, settled by the proximity to Edge’s familiar soul. Edge says, “They don’t touch souls here.”

That wakes Red up. He’s a magpie for shiny bits of new information. He actually sits up. “No shit? I figured they’d be all over that fluffy bunny sharing feelings bullshit. Who told you that, Sans?”

Sans is a shadow that crosses Red’s mind, all impression and emotion. He’s smooth bones, cold hands, tired grin. He’s Red’s vicious satisfaction with every hard-won noise he pulls out of Sans’s mouth. He’s Red’s fascination for broken things. He’s Red’s rough affection, and not just as a shiny prize to be brought for Edge’s approval or as an entertaining fuck.

It’s not even a fraction of what Red feels for Edge. Nothing could be. But given that the kindest Red feels towards most people is amused tolerance, it’s a pleasant surprise.

Eyes narrowed, Red demands, “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” Edge says. He replaces Red’s soul beneath his ribs, giving it a last stroke with his thumb to make Red jerk and swear. “Yes, he’s the one who told me.”

“Not a reliable source,” Red says. “He ain’t exactly the type to let people in his head.”

“By now I know the difference between you playing dumb and being genuinely ignorant,” Edge says. “He had no idea what I was talking about. He hasn’t even touched his own soul.”

“Huh.” Red considers that. Then a slow, lecherous grin lights up his face. “Nobody’s tied him up, nobody’s fucked him until he cried, nobody’s touched his soul… You’re gonna mess him up when you get your hands on him. Gets me hot just thinking about it.”

Red says that like an inevitability. Despite himself, Edge is reassured. Not that he doubts his own merit, of course, but it’s good to know Red has such faith in him. He gives Red an amused look. “Does it now.”

There’s still a faint glow of magic in Red’s pelvis. Moving slow, giving Edge time to protest, Red straddles Edge’s lap. Red smirks at him. “Yeah. I ain’t the jealous type, y’know?”

Edge rests his hands on Red’s hips, keeping him from tipping off his lap. He digs his thumbs into the top of Red’s iliac crests, and Red practically purrs. “If he was anyone else, you’d kill him as soon as I wasn’t looking.”

“If he was anyone else, you wouldn’t want him,” Red says, which is true enough. Edge has only ever had eyes for Red, his aesthetic appreciation for Mettaton aside. Red and now Sans. “You should get what you want.”

“And what do you want?” Edge asks, as if he can’t feel the heat of Red’s bones and the subtle shift of his hips.

“World peace. A pony. Your dick.” Edge laughs, and Red squints at him. “What? You’re laughing at my jokes now?”

“It’s nothing,” Edge says. He grips Red’s hips tight, tight enough to bruise, and Red presses closer to him. “Greedy thing. I shouldn’t indulge you.”

“You did say you’d fuck me after you were done screwing around with my soul,” Red says. “But here I am, egregiously unfucked.”

Edge loves him so much his soul aches.

“Well,” Edge says, reaching between them to unbutton his pants. “Never say I’m not a man of my word.”


End file.
